


the prodigal daughter [son]

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, I hate myself, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trans Male Character, anyway, but jesus christ i really don't want to put that as a tag, god how the fuck do i tag this, lol mycroft's deadname is anthea because of course, technically for fandom trumps hate 2018, yoink - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "WELL HOW IN THE FUCK -" he pauses, sucks in a deep breath, and Anthea thinks maybe he remembers that she's in the house, "How-how in the fuck was I supposed to know -" he's calmer now, "- that transsexuals, of all fucking people, were - as a-a-a general fact - mentally sane?"Transsexuals.Hmm.





	the prodigal daughter [son]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! this is/was (whatever) my fic for the FTH 2018, which. god. so embarrassing. i don't have Words. i hate it so much. 
> 
> whatever.
> 
> warnings for gender dysphoria, cursing, and parents arguing (unintentionally) in front of their child, who understands what they're saying.  
> (let me know if i need to add tags/up the rating!)
> 
> hope y'all enjoy :)

_Anthea Imogene Mary Holmes_

**CURRENT PREFERRED NAME:** Anthea Holmes  
**DATE OF BIRTH:** 15.7.XXXX  
**CURRENT AGE:** 5  
**KNOWN LIVING RELATIVES:** Eleanor Holmes [nee Shaw] ( **MOTHER** ); Charles Holmes ( **FATHER** ); Rudolph Holmes ( **PATERNAL UNCLE** ); Sharon Shaw [nee Cummingham] ( **MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER** ); James Shaw ( **MATERNAL GRANDFATHER** ); Richard Holmes ( **PATERNAL GRANDFATHER** )

 **DATE:** 7.5

 

\----

 

Anthea Imogene Mary Holmes has a name that is not her own.

Anthea, from her mother’s mother.  
Imogene, from her father’s mother.  
Mary - well. Anthea has asked about that part of her name before, but her parents have always avoided telling her.

It is easy enough, however, to determine that the name comes from the unborn child that would have been her older sister, if she had been able to survive the developmental stage from inside her mother’s womb.

Anthea supposes it is a good thing, at any rate, that Mary had not survived, especially seeing as how her father was not Charles Holmes, but rather - the milkman’s, maybe? Perhaps one of Father’s coworkers, instead, though Anthea has not spent enough time around them to be able to figure it out.

Anthea’s parents do not know that Anthea knows about Mary. They slip up sometimes, though - mention how lucky they are to have Anthea, _especially considering -_ and then they pause, seem to remember that Anthea isn’t supposed to know about the mistakes they’ve made, and restart their sentence.

Anthea’s father does not know that Mary was not going to be his child, and Anthea is not planning on being the one to tell him.

Some things are better left unsaid.

 

\--------

 

_Anthea Imogene Mary Holmes_

**CURRENT PREFERRED NAME:** Anthea Holmes  
**DATE OF BIRTH:** 15.7.XXXX  
**CURRENT AGE:** 6  
**KNOWN LIVING RELATIVES:** Eleanor Holmes [nee Shaw] ( **MOTHER** ); Charles Holmes ( **FATHER** ); Rudolph Holmes ( **PATERNAL UNCLE** ); Sharon Shaw [nee Cummingham] ( **MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER** ); James Shaw ( **MATERNAL GRANDFATHER** ); Richard Holmes ( **PATERNAL GRANDFATHER** )

 **DATE:** 17.10

 

\----

 

It’s late October when Anthea Imogene Mary Holmes realizes that her mother doesn’t love her.

She’s one month and seventeen days into her first year of formal schooling, and she and the education system seem to have a mutual hatred for each other.

Or, rather, the education system hates her, and she finds it natural to return the feelings.

School is… tedious, maybe, for lack of a better word. Her teachers treat her (and her classmates, although they’re less important) like an idiot, going over the most basic of ideas - writing, and counting numbers, and going over the alphabet - as if she doesn’t already know these topics.

In retrospect, though, that might be because none of the _other_ people in her class know those topics.

Nevertheless, she supposes the best option would be to wait for the next term - trimester, or semester, or block, whatever they call it - and then talk to her mother about skipping to a higher grade level.

Speaking of her mother - right, yes.

Eleanor Holmes does not love her daughter.

It's not a particularly surprising realization. After the summer, complete with months of long nights at work and Anthea being left alone in the house, the young girl was almost surprised she hadn't realized earlier.

She can't say it doesn't hurt, though. Anthea’s grown, young though she is, to expect the loving care she's been given all her life.

Whatever.

It's fine. Obviously.

She’ll just have to… distance herself, perhaps. Better to control her emotions before

At any rate -

Anthea comes to acknowledge this fact that day, when their small family sits does for dinner.

It goes like this:

Her eyes have been flickering around the room for the past five minutes, focused but unseeing. If asked, she probably wouldn’t be able to say what she was thinking, but that’s okay.

She sighs lightly; eyes settle back onto her plate and a metal fork spins itself around in her fingers.

They notice, of course. Her parents may not be natural geniuses, but they are far from idiots.

"Anthea, honey? Is anything wrong?" Father looks concerned, though Anthea sitting cross-legged on her seat and staring blankly at the wall isn’t really anything new.

The girl in question purposefully relaxes her posture, sits as straight as she can, and smiles gently in Father’s general direction. "No! I’m okay. Just tired, I think." Mother frowns at her response.

She doesn’t say anything, though - just hums in lieu of a response - and Anthea breathes a quiet sigh of relief as quietly as she can manage. She knows she could've figured out a lie in enough time to be sufficient, but it's always nice to not have to fake a thought when she hasn’t actually had any.

Someone passes her the bowl of mashed potatoes - presumably Father, as the bowl came from her right side - and she accepts it with a grateful smile.

Anthea Holmes glances down at the potatoes, starts to spoon out a serving onto her plate -

They’re different.

Harder. A different shade than normal - more yellow, less rough.

A new recipe? No; Mother would have mentioned her having found a new recipe at the start of dinner.

Different buyer? No; there hadn’t been any new deliveries from their regular farmer since the last time Mother had made something with potatoes.

Ah. Of course.

"New market?" Anthea makes sure to sound nonchalant, dipping her spoon back into the bowl. She glances up, noting from the expressions on her parents’ faces and the still outstretched hand of her father that only a second has passed.

Her mother is the one to reply. "Mmm. Yes, actually, how'd you know?"

Anthea shrugs, pauses for a moment, and considers her answer. She rolls the words around in her mouth before answering. "The potatoes look a little different -"

"Oh, really?" Father interjects. "I didn’t notice that."

"- and I thought I saw new bags when you got home yesterday." She’s lying, of course - Anthea had been in her room when Mother had gotten home, carefully picking her way through what she could understand of _The Hobbit_.

The older woman frowns. "Same bags as always, love.”

'Love'.

Bullshit.

And right here - right at this moment? Here is where Anthea realizes - because, say what you will about Anthea Holmes’ parents, but they have _never_ to her. This is a first, and it hurts to realize.

It’s okay, though. Sentiment - well. It certainly wouldn’t help the situation, now would it?

"Right, of course," she relents, smile now pasted tightly on her face. "Must've been a trick of the light, then."

 

\--------

 

_Anthea Imogene Mary Holmes_

**CURRENT PREFERRED NAME:** Anthea Holmes  
**DATE OF BIRTH** : 15.7.XXXX  
**CURRENT AGE** : 6  
**KNOWN LIVING RELATIVES** : Eleanor Holmes [nee Shaw] ( **MOTHER** ); Charles Holmes ( **FATHER** ); Rudolph Holmes ( **PATERNAL UNCLE** ); Sharon Shaw [nee Cummingham] ( **MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER** ); James Shaw ( **MATERNAL GRANDFATHER** ); Richard Holmes ( **PATERNAL GRANDFATHER** )

 **DATE** : 26.3

 

\----

 

"Eleanor. _Listen._ Listen to me. I CAN’T publish that shit! Okay?"

Anthea Holmes’ father is - what do they call it? - whisper-yelling, in the specific sort of way that people do when they're drunk or trying desperately to be quiet.

It’s probably the latter, knowing her father and the AA chip sitting on his bedroom nightstand.

Anthea can hear her mother's loud breathing.

"And why the hell not, Charles." Though her words are obviously meant to be a question, they come out like a statement - as if she knows what she was about to hear, and she doesn't like it.

"Because none of it - not one word of that fucking conclusion - supports what I thought was going to happen!"

"Well maybe -" the step of a stiletto heel against wood floors - that’s the sound of Mother taking a step forward, and Anthea imagines her mother looking up with narrowed, directly at her father’s set glare, "- you shouldn't -" the crinkle of soft fabric, and a soft hiss from Father; she can’t see them, but she knows Mother just pushed a perfectly manicured nail (dark, she decides mentally (or maybe remembers), a deep sort of magenta) straight into the middle of his chest; the pressure makes a crescent mark where her finger lands, even through an undershirt and a button down, “have done -” Anthea gives an unnecessary sympathetic wince, even knowing there’s no use, “- done the _fucking_ study!"

Quiet.

Just for a moment.

"WELL HOW IN THE FUCK -" he pauses, sucks in a deep breath, and Anthea thinks maybe he remembers that she's in the house, "How-how in the fuck was I supposed to know -" he's calmer now, "- that transsexuals, of all fucking people, were - as a-a-a general fact - mentally sane?"

Transsexuals.

Hmm.

Anthea almost immediately starts scanning her brain for any mention of the word.

 _TRANS -_ Latin, _trans,_ "across from."

 _SEXUAL_ \- Late Latin _, sexus,_ "sex."

No. No, something about that isn't quite right. The roots suggest something along the lines of a homosexual, but, of course, that is already a term. So… hmm.

Of course, there is the fact that in modern times, ‘sex’ in and of itself could refer to either the sex of someone as either male or female, or the sex(es?) that someone has the capabilities of attraction towards. Using that idea…

Theoretically, that would mean something along the lines of a person who felt as though they were the… opposite sex, perhaps?

Maybe?

Mother cuts off Anthea's line of thought.

"You listen to me, Charles Holmes. I do not give a singular shit whether or not the results agree with your - frankly ridiculous - hypothesis. The fact of the matter is -" here, she puts on her _you-know-I'm-right-and-to-argue-otherwise-would-be-pointless_ voice, and now Anthea knows she's serious, "it would be unethical of you not to publish your findings, especially with the risk of lawsuit from those poor people you experimented with."

"Shit." The sound of fabric rustling - Father’s indulging in old habits, then, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his thighs. “God, I hate it when you’re right.”

Anthea doesn’t have to look at her mother to know that she’s smirking. “Yes, I know.”


End file.
